


Sugar

by sxgaro



Category: Pentagon (Korea Band)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Sexual Assault, Basketball, Character Death, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Face Punching, Fast relationship, Fluff and Angst, Funeral, Heavy Angst, Heroin, Heroin addiction, Implied Relationships, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Character Death, Punching, Sad, Sex, Sexual Assault, also i love hyuna, and her relationship with hyojong, basketball diaries, sorry to my parents, this was written before they came out as a couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 02:09:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18681988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxgaro/pseuds/sxgaro
Summary: He had always known that being with Hwi had given him a new high. But he had just only realized, gazing back at his boyfriend with dilated pupils and quickened breaths, that Hwi was the only high he’d ever need.





	Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago and actually took it off of ao3 for some reason because I'm pretty proud of this work, so I'm reposting :^) this is based off of The Basketball Diaries, one of my favourite movies. Also, I am not trying to romanticize drug addiction or mental illness or just sad things in general. I'm just simply telling a story :^)) thanks !

Hyojong always woke up to his mother banging at his bedroom door, sun barely up, and the dull smell of humidity thick in the air. The box fan that sat on his dresser whirred against the sound of the birds just on his windowsill and Hyojong would sit up in his bed and use the heel of his palm to rub the sleep from his eyes. 

“You’ve got school in ten minutes, Jong! Get up!”

His mother’s voice sounded muffled through the thick wood and Hyojong would find this familiarity in it. A sort of deja vu as he threw the blanket from his lower half and dragged his feet over to his closet, only to realize the mounds of clothes he was stepping over was his uniform. 

It never took long for him to dress and brush his teeth, joining his mother in the kitchen only to tell her he wasn’t very hungry. And he’d kiss her on the cheek, despite her pleads that he’d eat _something_ , and walk out the door. His mother would sigh and eat the toast, herself. 

Catholic school, for Hyojong, was always fun. Talking back to his teacher and getting paddled in front of the class was something he’d found humorous. Getting down on his hands and knees and kneeling before every hard whip that came to his ass as if he were an animal. And when the bell would dismiss the torturous activity, his lips would curl in a sly smile as he stared up at the man. 

“Too bad, Father, I was just starting to enjoy myself.” 

And his teacher would grimace in a sort of disgust. “We can do it again tomorrow, if you’re so fond of it.”

The days spanned out as usual, skipping class, and huffing whatever cleaner him and his rowdy friends could get their hands on. They’d sit near the bridge and Hyojong would find himself somewhere new every time they’d stare out off to the rising sun, as if he were reborn, reincarnated, or like that of a phoenix. His eyes would squint and he’d accept the passing cigarette that came his way, taking a small puff, and smiling at nothing. 

He would never exactly think of anything in particular. At moments, his mind would wander to his mom, to basketball, to their next game. He was good at playing, good enough to move to America and join the NBA’s or something of that sort. Better than some silly Catholic High School team, where he’d dick around with his friends and pop uppers because he thought they helped. And basketball always led to Hyunggu. He never had any particular thoughts, but Hyunggu was always at the back of his mind, scratching at the occipital of his skull, leaving deep marks there like something you’d find in the midst of being possessed. He never talked about Hyunggu, unless he was visiting him, asking him how his dreadful day had gone. His name rarely came up, other than those dark moments. 

“Father’s a fucking creep, huh?” Wooseok snorted and it drew Hyojong from his thoughts. He passed the cigarette to Jay and stared at the tattoos up along his arm and shoulder, sneaking over his neck. 

Hyojong looked at Wooseok and snorted, the smallest of smirks making way to his lips at the comment. Wooseok laughed a little. “I think he _enjoys_ paddling your sweet ass. Did you see the look he gave you? _’We can do it again tomorrow, if you’re so fond of it’_. God, what a fucking weirdo.”

Jackson grabbed a cigarette of his own, letting it hang at the corner of his mouth,. He pushed the pack he had inside the pocket of his jacket, before he was shoving Hyojong at the shoulder, playful in his movements. “Yeah, I bet Dawn likes it just as much, don’t you fag?”

Hyojong accepted the shove with a giggle, pressing his fingers into the skin on Jackson’s wrist and pulling it away from him. “Shut the fuck up, asshole.” he said, shaking his head, yet a smile still laid there somewhere over his lips, ghosting just a bit, enough for Jackson to notice. “And even if I were gay, that prick is definitely not on my top list.”

That same afternoon, they had practice together, and the coach had found them huddled, signing the ball that Hyunggu had usually played with, for when he got better. Although things weren’t looking up. The first time he had seen Hyunggu with no hair was also the first time he had seen Yuto cry. It was hard, all of it, and it was even harder forcing himself to laugh and say, “When you get out of here, we’ll all shave our hair and look like a gang of skinheads.” but it made Hyunggu laugh. Hyunggu had also lacked eyebrows, skin sheen and pale over where the patches of hair were, and Yuto muttered out the word ‘cold’ when they held hands just against the hospital bed, tears still staining his reddened cheeks. Hyojong didn’t cry until that night, making him seem weak. Making, _Hyunggu_ seem weak, as if he were already in a casket. It had been a terrible two years since Hyunggu wasn’t able to play, making their team absolute shit in comparison to how they used to be. 

“What are you guys doing?” Hyojong looked up at the coach and something in his stomach twirled dreadfully. He looked back down to his Converse.

“Signing the ball for Kino.” Jinho answered, gripping hard onto his clipboard and leaning against the lockers. “We’re gonna give it to him.”

The coach looked between the boys, before he nodded his head, holding his hand out. Hyojong looked up again and could see the thick rings coating each finger like sausages with layers of rubber bands, squeezing them until they were on the verge of popping.

“Can I sign it?” his coach asked and Hyojong nodded, something hesitant as he did so and he handed the man the ball. 

He watched those same fingers grip the Sharpie he had just been using and he felt himself inwardly cringe at the noise it emitted, but more so at the soft utters of what he was being scripted onto the orange rubber. _We’ll miss you - Coach Park_.

Hyojong nibbled at his lip anxiously. 

_We’ll miss you_. As if he was already gone. 

He handed the ball back and Hyojong left his hands in his lap, unable to touch it, feeling as though it would burn through his flesh if he did. Yuto ended up taking it, giving Hyojong a look just as the bell rang. 

“This one’s for Kino.” the coach said and he watched the boys disperse.

It was most days that his coach would stop him in the locker room and ask if Hyojong wanted to practice some days at his house, that they could _make a night of it_ , causing Hyojong to politely decline, saying he was far too busy during his nights, with homework and all, or that he had to help his mom around the house, or that he had already made plans. But he found himself pleasantly surprised at what had lacked that evening. 

He had hoped their game that day wasn’t for Hyunggu, because they were shit. And it only reminded Hyojong of how much better they would’ve been, had he been there with them. 

-

Hyojong, at often times, found himself at the basketball court just a block from his home. He didn’t own a bike, or a car, so he rather walked from his front door, just beneath the scolding sun, and made it to the park in time for the sweat to kick in to cool him off. He would wait for Hwitaek against the fence, considering Hwi’s house was just above the court in a small apartment complex, and pick small flowers that were considered weeds to tie them around the laces of his Chuck’s and upon Hwi’s arrival, Hyojong’s smile would arrive, too. 

“Hey, planter.” he heard the voice say and Hyojong gazed up, squinting at the brightness that surrounded his head, making him look borderline angelic. He was appareled in a grey t shirt and skinny jeans that had formerly ended at his ankles but were now cut just at the knees, fringing at the ends. Hyojong grinned a bit and accepted the hand that was offered. 

He had known Hwitaek for just over a few years, meeting a month or two before Hyunggu was diagnosed, and he was the only person Hyojong had ever played basketball with where they hadn’t worried about scores. He was also the first person, aside from Jackson, to make him question if he was actually straight. He hoped maybe Hwi would admit someday that he had felt the same. 

“How’s Gyu doing?” was the first thing, aside from their initial meeting, that came out of Hwitaek’s mouth, just as he threw the ball over Hyojong’s head, and made it into the basket.

Hyojong’s stomach sort of twisted, that surprised gutty feeling you receive towards something so unexpected and he looks at Hwi for a moment, before walking towards the bouncing ball, sitting alone beneath the basket, casting shadows against the court with every jump it makes. 

“He’s doing good, actually.” Hyojong answers, trying not to sound so dry. “He’s basically free of cancer.”

Hyojong was really good at lying, although mostly when it came to Hyunggu, and lying was something he loved doing if it meant he could see Hwitaek’s smile become so genuine. 

“That’s fucking awesome, Dawn.” he says and Hyojong side eyes him for a moment, thick lips spread over beautiful teeth. He looks back down at the ball in his hand, before throwing it to the boy.

Hyunggu had died that night. It was just after Hyojong visited him to give him the ball, to tell him that the team still thought about him, yet Hyojong hadn’t received the news until the following morning, which meant school hadn’t existed that day. When Hwi stated his confusion, he told him he lied to make himself feel better. And to tell the truth, admitting it made it worse.

The funeral was only a few days later, the casket was open. It was the first time Hyojong had ever witnessed death in the flesh, right before his very eyes. Hyunggu was sixteen. He looked sixty. His rotting corpse covered in makeup and the skin over his bones tighter than he remembered, like pale leather, although he had just seen him days before. He wasn’t Hyunggu any longer. Just something the bugs could feed off of.

“Remember that one time Kino got pissed at us for stealing a bunch of beer from that gas station, and so he made us take it all back and apologize?” he heard Yuto say and he could hear the smile in his voice, blocked out by the swig of the bottle he was drinking from. 

“God, he was so _pissed_ , dude. He always hated when we stole.” Jinho added.

Hyojong didn’t realize, at the time, how much of a dick he had been when Jackson said Hyunggu was better off being dead than in being in so much pain, but he was a dick. It was mostly a blur, tears streaming down his face like a waterfall that had no real place to end up in, other than shaking hands and quivering lips. He could only feel what he figured were Jay’s toned arms wrapping around his waist and the soft utters of, “It’s alright,” repeating like a mantra in his ear. He only calmed down at the sight of pills and found himself in a state of mellowness as they laid on the benches of the park and stared off into the night sky.

And that night had seemingly lasted days, reminding Hyojong of when he and Hyunggu would rest over silent rooftops and they would do nothing but stare, as if life had depended on it. It made him wonder where it was that Yuto had finally found the love that they had, wondered how someone as small as Hyunggu could make such drastic changes in Yuto’s life, the happiness he had brought to him, had given him. And he had wondered mostly how Yuto was really doing, now that that happiness was gone. 

He remembers that smile- it reminded him of Hwi. Pure and beautiful, like the heat on a Winter morning, where the sun slows the snow and melts it away into the pavement. 

He visited Hwi that night, knocking desperately at his door in a manner that sent Hwitaek quickly throwing on a t shirt and tripping over small things he had kept on the floor of his small apartment. Hyojong appreciated, at most times, that he lived alone. Appreciated the privacy that he wanted the two to have at times.

When Hwitaek opened the door, something hit Hyojong in the chest, like an entire truck had slammed straight into his heart and sent him flying backwards. It amazed him sometimes just how ethereal Hwi could be, even when he is just getting over the highs of sleep, eyes puffy and squinting beyond the newfound lights of the hallway outside his door. 

Hyojong offered a weak smile and gripped the tie around his neck, swallowing hard. Hwitaek could see the aftermath of crying all over Hyojong’s face, assumed he had just come back from the funeral and the boy had only let out a small, “Um,”, before Hwi interrupted him by letting him inside, gripping him tight by the shoulder and gently tugging. 

Hyojong had slipped out of his uncomfortable suit jacket, Hwi telling him he could set it anywhere, and then began undoing his tie, letting it sit just around the base of his collar. His hair was parted down the middle, draping into his tired eyes like worn out curtains. He didn’t look over when Hwi sat down on the sofa, but he could hear the cries of the springs as his body weight dipped into the cushion and it took a long while for Hyojong to finally join him, staring somewhere off at a small photo of an older woman sitting on his entertainment set. 

Hyojong almost asked who it was, but stopped himself short, out of a sudden embarrassment his brain had settled on, instead placing his elbows on his knees and resting his head in his hands, where he rubbed. 

Hwi was the one who broke the silence with a quiet, “How are you doing?”, causing Hyojong’s head to whip up, a surprised manner in his actions. He only shrugged, leaning back, and messing with a throw pillow to occupy his mind.

“I’m,” he begins and looks as if he’s holding his breath, before he’s letting it all go, chest falling as he does so. “I’m not sure how I’m doing.” 

Hwi doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even nod, but only stares, waiting for something more to come of him, waiting for more unspoken words. And Hyojong was shaking his head at the thoughts that had begun racing, wondering if Hwi could notice such distress. He probably could, it was far too obvious. 

“He was such a good person, Hwi, the only good one out of any of our friends. He never stole, never did drugs, never even drank, and _he’s_ the one who ends up dead.” 

Hyojong didn’t mean to, but he flinched at the last word, as if he didn’t even believe it in the first place. And he was back to sulking, feeling those random rushes of numbness at every moment flashes of Hyunggu’s smile would appear beyond his eyelids, making Hyojong ever so disconsolated, body a slumped figure beyond the cushions of this very sofa. 

And Hyojong honestly doesn’t remember when it happened and he had decided he was the one who initiated it all when he saw the surprised expression written so obviously on Hwitaek’s face, but they were kissing, and something inside him felt brand new. And he found this sort of newfound pleasure when he felt the palms of Hwi’s hands on his cheeks, something that felt like two whole years of built up tension put into one kiss. As if it would be their last time kissing anyone.

Hwi’s eyes closed on their own and moved his lips with Hyojong’s in such a gentle, yet hungry, manner, one hand brushing down to meet with his chest to press him back onto the couch cushion, fingers so soft and slow, cradling Hyojong’s skin, considerate, tender. Hwi pulled away from his lips, Hyojong parting his own in a need for breaths, which came in short gasps as he lay beneath the boy he’d been crushing on for years, the boy whose mouth made gentle marks into his neck and up along his collar bone.

Hyojong could feel the slipping of his tie as it came around his neck and met with the floor, emitting a soft thud, before Hwi was beginning to work at Hyojong’s buttons, a stare in his eyes as to ask if everything was okay, if _this_ was okay. And Hyojong was nodding his head, swallowing so hard, struggling to rid of the wedge in his throat as he watched and felt the way bony fingers toggled with his button up, freeing his skin to the oxygen around them. Hwitaek felt himself visibly gulping at the sight and he was dragging his hands along Hyojong’s chest and stomach, lips twitching when Hyojong let out a small breath. It didn’t take much longer after that for Hwi to pull his shirt over his head from the back collar and pull Hyojong’s slacks down, leaving the two of them in nothing but their boxers.

Hwi had never asked if it was Hyojong’s first time, mostly figured due to the fact that he was only seventeen years old and was far more nervous than he needed to be. But it wasn’t that. Hyojong can solely remember the only other time he had ever had sex, when Jay brought him to this girl, Hyuna’s, house, and gave her up as an offering for his birthday when he turned sixteen, as if she were a piece of meat. He felt sick the entire time, yet unlikely nervous, only because he couldn’t get the image of Hwitaek out of his head every moment he leaned in to kiss her neck and smell her hair. And _that’s_ why Hyojong was nervous today, this very night, beneath Hwi. Because this isn’t his first time having sex, but his first time having sex with someone he genuinely liked.

Hwitaek didn’t have lube, as he never finds himself in these situations often, and settled on a half empty jar of coconut oil he found in his bathroom cabinet. Hyojong laughed at first, saving from the awkward way Hwi dipped his hand in and spread it over three of his fingers to carefully insert inside of Hyojong, before he had to wipe them off with a groan just so he could take their boxers off. 

When he started with the first one, he could see the boy’s face sort of scrunch at the odd feeling, hands gripping at the cloth draping over the sofa and spilling over like a waterfall. Hyojong could only grunt with every thrust, all high pitched and whiny sounding, a natural lilt that came with his already acute voice, and his nose hadn’t halted its scrunching, something that seemed to be subconscious with the uncomfort of someone else’s fingers inside of you. 

To be completely honest, it didn’t feel natural, but it did feel right. To have Hwi’s eyes on his own, to not think of where he had previously been, to not imagine what it would feel like to have just another Vicodin slip down his throat and bring him anywhere but here. He felt high enough in this moment, to hear quickened breaths and accelerated heartbeats. 

Hyojong hadn’t noticed when Hwi was done prepping, hadn’t noticed when he was already lining himself up, using one hand to do so, and the other to bring Hyojong’s leg up and over his shoulder. His eyes were bright, even in this dim lighting, and they blinked down at the boy, lips plump and glossed over, brows drawn in question.

“You’re okay?” he asks, and it was so soft, Hyojong almost didn’t catch what he said.

And either way, he was nodding his head, _would have_ nodded his head, and found himself scrunching his face again when he could feel the stretch. So unfamiliar and terrible that Hyojong gasped in surprise and gripped at whatever was closest to him, which happened to be Hwi’s thin bicep. His nails pressed crescents into the flesh, causing Hwi to stop.

“Is everything-” but Hyojong was already nodding, eyes closed and brows furrowing to meet each other halfway. 

He almost began to regret this, wondered if the other side of pain would have been way better than this, but he parted his lips to breathe, before he was slowly unraveling his eyes and peering up at Hwi, and it all brought him back. To when he had first seen him on the basketball court and suddenly realized any pain would be worth seeing Hwi above him like this. He patted his arm and nodded, as to tell him to continue. 

Hyojong forced himself to endure whatever pain that followed and repeated his own calming words in his head like a mantra, mixed with Hwi’s soft kisses that began to travel up and down his neck and shoulder. The thrusts began slow, painfully slow, until that pain dissipated into something far too new, something so unfamiliar, yet didn’t want to be done with. And Hyojong knew there were pleasures in this, but he found himself awfully surprised at how it would actually feel, aside from the strangeness, and basked in what was to come with every new thrust Hwi made into him. 

Hyojong felt like he was letting everything go every time he whined out beyond Hwitaek’s ears, perking whenever he did so, as if he had something to say and as if he were prepared to listen at any moment. And Hyojong didn’t notice the way his fingers were digging into the flesh on Hwi’s arms, pressing into such soft skin, becoming sore. And Hyojong’s neck, once unblemished, was now covered in bruises, sucked into and bitten, lips slack every time he felt Hwi’s on his trembling skin.

And when the thrusts became faster, and the springs drew louder, Hyojong felt that build up in his abdomen, the build up in his head, all wanting to be let go so bad, and his throat was open so wide, letting out the most obscene sounds he didn’t know he was capable of even making. His heart felt like it was going to explode at any given moment, like he was in space, like there were stars beyond his hazy eyes, drooping and hooded.

And then he let go, choking on gasps as he felt Hwi’s hand reach down to tug him loose, bringing him on an entirely different planet. Hwi had found his own climax minutes after, using Hyojong like a limp ragdoll as he laid there, blissed out against the sofa, and had pulled out moments after that, wasting no time and getting up to wet a paper towel from the kitchen. He first washed the terrible oil from his hands and dick, and then pressed it into Hyojong’s torso, smiling at the way his eyes fluttered closed and the way he hummed at the warmth. 

He was glad he could take care of him like this, glad that Hyojong didn’t need to worry about anything, at least for tonight, and he was finding himself throwing the used paper towel off somewhere in his messy apartment, and joining the boy on his couch. They revelled in the vast silence that took over, the sounds of breathing and naked shuffling the only noises to be heard. And when Hyojong buried his face into the crook of Hwi’s neck, when he wrapped his arm around his chest and pulled him in close, Hwi knew he didn’t need to ask if he wanted to spend the night. Knew he didn’t need to ask if he had any regrets.

-

Dating was far different than Hyojong had realized it was, considering he had never actually _dated_ anyone. But visiting Hwi on far more occasions than he was used to and making out in his bed until their lips drew raw was something he had never expected to like as much as he did. And by the time Hyojong decided he wanted to be with Hwi forever, was when his December break for school had come up for a surprise visit. 

And saying I love you, letting it leave his lips like daisies being picked into nimble hands, had become a common chore Hyojong loved doing. Like a task he needed to do, yet craved at once. And he loved Hwi’s travelling fingers drag along his hips whenever their lips would collide in gentle strokes like a paint brush upon damp paper, lightly dragging over warm and wet skin. And he loved their teeth clinking against one another in heated moments where their clothes were gone in just seconds and bracing the floor in quick strides of a passionate consequence. He never wanted them to end, never saw them ending in any lifetime, in any universe, in any dimension where Hyunggu might be alive. 

God, he was dumbly in love, stupidly in love. He didn’t want more than this.

The first time Hyojong had told anyone about them was the first time he had tried heroin, at Yuto’s house, just in his back porch, six months after Hyunggu’s funeral. With such futile moments leading to such careless actions. Hyojong hadn’t budged at first, mind and heart racing at just the sight of it. He had never seen any drug other than pills, weed, coke, and maybe the occasional glue to huff on in person and just the apprehension of knowing what it was that was beyond them, only inches away, had scared Hyojong like nothing else had. 

Hyojong was frightened of needles, for starters, but hurting inside had taken over his brain and repeated over and over, visions of Kino alone and broken and nothing but skin pulled tightly back onto brittle bones, sitting in a casket with no air to breathe. The images that reminded him of what it was like on that very day, bringing what it felt like being with Hwi so far back in his mind, he almost forgot the strong emotion behind it all. 

It was the thought that Yuto had been hurting, more so than he, and the hurt would go away with just a taste. 

So he gave in.

And the heat washed over him like a quick tsunami, like this intense pleasure that wiped out his entire body and made his knees buckle beneath him. It reminded him of the night he had lost his virginity to Hwi, his _actual_ virginity. Something so brand new and welcoming and overwhelming. Such an overstimulation that brought him into this space of happiness and nothing more. 

And though the next morning, he couldn’t stop himself from springing from his bedroom and bracing himself over his toilet bowl to throw up, though his legs felt like he had been running for days on end, though his stomach’s cramping came to such terrible highs, he did it again that following weekend. And over the course of his December break, it had become a weekend thing, like going to a grandparent’s house or having traditions that you couldn’t find yourself to break, rather than seeing it as a habit- _because Hyojong had it under control_. It was a weekend thing, and _only_ a weekend thing.

Even when he began bringing it to school, just after that week had ended, just so he could get a bit of flavour, snorting it through his nose in the locker rooms during practice and letting it course through him after fifteen minutes through the game. It was only a weekend thing, even when him and Yuto robbed the convenience store down the block so that they could muster up all the cash they were able just to get _something_. 

Going to school hadn’t been fun anymore, not as fun as it used to be when he had the energy to talk back to Father, to emit heavy whippings along his butt and the backs of his thighs so that he could get a laugh out of the class whenever he smiled at the lashes. And it felt as though his life was a heavy blur.

“Jesus, you guys look shit.” was the first thing Hyojong could comprehend that Monday morning. He didn’t know who had spoken at first, whose voice it was that drew him to whatever reality he had been so fond of escaping, until the voice came again and his weary eyes slowly looked to Jackson, whose brows were pulled into a concerned frown. “Seriously, are you guys alright? Party too hard?”

Jackson looked to Yuto and Hyojong’s eyes followed, hoping maybe he’d find a lie, find a false explanation in this, and became relieved when he muttered a drawn out, “He came over and we both got sick.”

It was a quick lie, a dumb one, but good enough to make Jackson shut up and mind his own business. Yet Jinho’s eyes were hard and heavy, staring down the both of them as if his poor life had depended on it. He knew. He _clearly_ knew. It was no secret his father was a former drug addict and Jinho could hunt down any of them like a dog just by looking at one. Hyojong pretended he couldn’t notice his lingering gaze and walked to his next class instead, legs aching with every dull step.

-

Throwing up was such a terrible habit that Hyojong had gotten used to. Had gotten used to the burn in his throat, the cleanliness of his teeth, the pungent taste on his tongue, like sour metal of sorts. He had gotten used to the empty feeling his stomach and brain had shared in common and the voiced concerns his mother gave him every time she decided to take his temperature, feeling his head for some sort of fever, some sort of explanation. 

She let him skip school most days, when his eyes were rimmed red and his skin so pale, it was far beyond white, something of a chalky colour, a vast contrast to the reddening of his scleras, which had become glossed over and bloodshot. He was sick, no matter which way his mother believed, and his habit had been fed by the lunch money she had given him over a course of many weeks, adding up to treacherous spending money on days his skin itched. 

And after about a week and a half of Hyojong ignoring Hwi’s texts and added up voicemails, fleeting moments of his cell had ended up smashed before the wall and panicked knocks were heard at the door. He could hear his mother’s footsteps from his bed as the knocks went on for what felt like horrible days and when the door finally opened and Hyojong heard his voice as if he hadn’t heard it in years, he was whipping the blanket from his torso and shuffling towards the commotion. 

“Right now isn’t really a good time, sweetie.” his mother said and she was speaking in this tone that made Hyojong want to smash her head into the pavement, something so fake and surreal, something Hwi didn’t deserve, and he was pushing past her to find the door. 

He saw Hwitaek’s face light up for only milliseconds, before it fell at the sight before him. Hyojong watched his eyes scan over himself, dragging along his face and to the way his skinny arms balanced against the threshold, then back up, worried brows drawn so close together. It looked like he had so much to say in only short moments, but all that came out was, “You’ve lost weight.” in heartbreaking melodies. 

Hyojong shrugged and looked down just enough to avoid the unwanted eye contact. Hwi nodded a little and Hyojong could see him nibbling at his lip in a nervous manner, fingers playing with one another as he thought. “You’ve been ignoring my calls-why?”

Hyojong thought about a lot of things to say, he thought about telling the truth, the disgusting truth, the one that would break them both into a million pieces and left on the floor for the rats to eat. But he also thought about lying. He was such a good liar, he loved lying if it meant he could see Hwi’s smile, if it meant he could see Hwi’s relief, and so he said a muttered, “I’ve been sick.” and left it at that, though it wasn’t necessarily a _lie_. More of something slightly fabricated from the truth. He thought about the saying, “what they don’t know won’t hurt them”, and settled on the fantasy world he had kept living in his mind.

“Are we broken up?” the voice that came out was so broken that it fled Hyojong’s heart into a black river and he was shaking his head so fast, fingers bony and gripping the door in desperation. 

“God, no.” he promptly replied and Hwi was smiling faintly, just hovering over his lips like a ghost that was scared of itself, transparent, yet there. And Hyojong smiled just the same, lips twitching in a need for change, a need for a morning stretch, a need to feel new and okay beyond Hwi’s sight. For a second, he felt higher than he’s ever been, looking at the love of his life, broken and torn down. 

When Hyojong finally went back to school, it was a few days after Hwi’s fateful visit, and moments in real time hadn’t felt real. It was when he asked Coach Park if he could use the bathroom and the coach muttered a low, “You have the bladder of a woman, Kim.”, that he had deemed himself caught, the coach following in just after a few minutes. 

Moments in real time hadn’t felt real, hands placed in areas that left Hyojong’s head dazed and confused. Words like, “You can’t tell anyone, and even if you did, who’s gonna believe a junkie teen anyways?” fingers groping him in offerings that sent him pushing the coach off of him and sending him flying against the shower room wall. He felt disgusting, undergoing such terrible touches and feeling them for days, feeling his dirty ring covered sausage fingers gripping at his crotch, and feeling empty inside. Experiencing his second way of happiness was such a solution that Hyojong’s mother had finally taken notice of what was really happening. It had sent words flying off the walls in loud roars.

“This is what you’ve been doing, Hyojong? Under my own roof?” 

And he hadn’t noticed he was pushing her off of him, hadn’t noticed the words leaving his throat like venom, “Get the fuck away from me, you bitch!” and storming through the house, searching for his belongings as she screamed for him to leave, clothes flying in heated moments when he found his jacket and was slipping it over his thinning body, pushing past her.

“What are you doing?” she was asking and he didn’t even bother to look at her.

“Looking for my shit so I can never see you again.” he replied coldly and something in her heart stung greatly as his tongue continuously rubbed at his teeth, making smacking noises in sudden rages. 

She crossed her arms over her chest and watched as he grabbed the nearest bag and stuffed it with whatever it was he could find, whether it was his or not, and found himself slamming the door behind him. He ignored his mother’s screams from outside the window, ignored the basketball trophies being thrown against the pavement, smashing into plastic shards all along the sidewalk and street. He only paid attention to the way his sneakers pressed into the ground and the way his jeans dragged with them, kicking dirty slush up against the backs of his calves. 

It was barely snowing out this night, but it was still cold, too cold for his exposed fingers, and he had decided the only place to go was Hwi’s, crossing the busy street to the basketball court. He hadn’t remembered much by the time he made it there, had only felt a hit to his head before everything had gone black, his body slumping against the wet ground with a loud thump.

He had dreamt of something he couldn’t seem to recall, remembering bits and pieces, like he was flying up a flight of stairs and lying back down onto a cloud of immense pleasure, pain and horror fleeing from his thoughts as his mind entered a deep sleep, void of any noise or light.

When he awoke, however, he was in a familiar apartment, stomach twirling at the natural scent it had given off, and when his neck moved to the side to find Hwi sitting in a chair and staring at him, his head began to pound immensely, aches reaching throughout his whole body like skyscrapers with no true end. His immediate reaction was to rub at the most painful places, heels of his hands pressing into the lumps that had formed on his head, wincing at the swelled sensation his brain gave. 

“What happened?” he asked, almost promptly, and Hwi felt himself sighing, a bored expression seen in his eyes. He wasn’t looking at Hyojong anymore, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he positioned himself in his seat more comfortably. 

“I saw you get mugged from my window. Your backpack’s gone. You were passed out by the time I came down to get you.” Hyojong was about to give his input on the situation, sitting up with great attempts and grimacing at the pounding that came with it in the front of his head, but Hwi beat him to it, opening his mouth again. “I would have called an ambulance or the police, but I didn’t want you to get caught with something you shouldn’t have had- _sick?_ You’ve been _sick? Really_ , Hyojong?”

Hwitaek was standing at this point, hovering over Hyojong, gawking down at blinking eyes and confused gazes, which caused new angers somewhere deep in his bubbling stomach. His eyes were angry, face feeling of fire, fingers shaking with every subtle movement they made, gripped at his sides as Hyojong’s brows furrowed at the man. He tried his best to look confused, puzzled by whatever accusation he was making and attempted to stand up, only to be shot down again with a push, body slumping aggressively against the couch. He felt his jacket being thrown at him, a soft thud against his torso and he ripped it away from his face, now gazing up angrily.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about, Hwi,” he said through his teeth, attempting to remain quiet, attempting to remain cool, to keep from launching up and punching Hwitaek in the mouth. “But you need to stop right fucking now.”

Hwi scoffed, jutting out his jaw to show his anger, to express how seething he really was, that Hyojong could just pass it all off so easily, as if he was truly that oblivious. Hwi wasn’t dumb. “Do _not_ lie to me, Hyojong. Tell me what you did- what you _do_. I want to hear you say it.”

His voice was quiet, dangerously quiet. And slow, like being calm was his last resort, that something so sudden could set him off. And Hyojong got up, snaking his arms through the sleeves of his jacket, grimace spread across his face so naturally, lip upturned as he looked around for his shoes, which he found had been absent from his feet. “I don’t have to say _shit_.” he muttered once his eyes set on them, bending over and slipping them on. He began padding at the pockets of his coat, and upon realizing what had been missing, he slowly raised his head to look at his boyfriend, an accusing look in his terrible gaze, and Hwitaek offered the same look of disgust.

“Where is it?” he said through his teeth once more, jaw clenching and unclenching every time Hwi squinted his eyes.

Hwi’s tongue slid over his teeth, pressing into his cheek, smiling almost cockily. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking off to the side, before they met eyes again, head turned just the slightest. “Where’s _what_?” he asked and Hyojong was standing straight, nose flaring.

“You know what the _fuck_ I’m talking about!” he was screaming now, yet Hwi didn’t find himself flinching, rather walking up to Hyojong until their noses were touching, pressing against one another so that their breaths had become one. Hwi could smell the tobacco escaping his throat, the smell so pungent and rich, he almost forgot about their fight, almost lunged forward to press their lips together in a sudden turn on that had his head spinning. But when Hyojong pushed his flat hands against Hwi’s shoulders and sent him back, a sort of reality was brought through again and he was angry once more. “Give me my shit, Hwi! I swear to god, I’ll fucking kill you!”

Hwi could feel the spit leaving Hyojong’s lips, even as far away as he had become, coming out in spurts of heavy vexation, and he was pulling a small baggie from his back pocket, a mini pouch filled with a familiar substance, spreading every time Hwi’s nimble fingers waved it in the air. “You mean this shit?” he spat and it only took fleeting moments for Hyojong’s fists to be gripping and swatting at whatever it was he could find, bodies ramming into random desks and popcorn walls, slamming with every shove and radiating extreme thuds throughout the building as Hyojong made every attempt to grab at the bag.

Hwi had felt a fist at some point, colliding with his face, his eye, then chin, snapping his jaw from its place for a few moments, then another at his nose. He had felt this rush of liquid fleeing from the inside of it, joining with his lips and spreading all across his teeth, dying them that of a crimson colour. He could taste it on his tongue, feel it seep into his palette and he was hissing at the abrupt pain that followed, grabbing Hyojong’s wrist in the process of kicking him away and watching as his boyfriend was being sent back and hitting the wall behind him, falling to his dreadful defeat.

And it didn’t take much strength for Hwi to push through Hyojong, once the boy found his way to his feet again, and find the bathroom, letting him watch as the pouch was being flushed downward, swimming until it disappeared in the contaminated liquid. And Hyojong’s knees had found the ground in seconds, fingers gripping the base of the toilet, cries echoing into it as tears joined with the water. His body began to shake, so aggressive that he had become limp against the porcelain and was being lifted by the only other boy in the room, hands pulling him up by his armpits. And by the time Hyojong was up, he was finding weak fists pounding desperately at Hwi’s chest, so soft and pathetic, it broke Hwitaek’s heart. 

“How could you fucking do that, you bastard!” he was yelling, voice so hoarse and face so tenderly depressing, so destroyed, and Hwi’s eyes scanned over the way that Hyojong’s were rimmed red, purple blotches escaping underneath and over his eyes, joining with intense veins along his lids. He was still hitting Hwi where his heart lied and Hwi let him, let him take out all the energy he had left, until Hyojong was going limp in his arms and crying into his shoulder as if Hwi was the only hurt, yet the only comfort, he had.

And Hwitaek held him as if life had depended on it, arms wrapping around his waist and hands stopping at his lower back, nose pressing into Hyojong’s shoulder, blood seeping into the thick fabric of his jacket. And Hyojong was hiccuping out the softest, “I’m sorry”’s, gripping at whatever he could find, gripping at whatever was attached to Hwi, whatever Hwi was, whatever made up him, trying to find comfort, trying to dull the pain that had swallowed him up and left him hollow, left him alone. 

And the night had followed with more cries, howls of pain as Hyojong’s body flailed against Hwi’s bed. And Hwi watched him from the doorway, propped back on a chair, arms crossed over his chest, and eyes casting downward every time Hyojong would pound a hand against the wall and scream out, “Please, Hwi, it _hurts_! Just let me go get a little, I’ll be okay!”

And his heart hammered dangerously in his chest whenever Hyojong would scratch desperately at his skin, running aggressive fingers all along his arms, pressing into his cramped stomach, and hovering over his legs, thighs feeling as though he’d been running for days on end. His skin was dampened with sweat, yet he remained underneath the blanket, body chilled and pale from the whirring fan above. At some point, Hyojong had hovered over the bed and threw up into a trash can Hwi had left there for him, Hwitaek’s eyes averting to his own fingers as they danced against his t shirt in a desperation for some other occupation. 

When Hyojong fell asleep, Hwi had found himself slipping in next to him, only grimacing at the smell of vomit that emitted from his soft breaths, before he was pulling him in and wrapping his arms around his torso, breathing in whatever scent he could find that would remind him of Hyojong, the one he thought he knew. 

When morning came, Hwi was already in the kitchen, the great smell of something familiar replacing the bland air around the house, and Hyojong had found himself wrapped up in the duvet, pausing at the threshold of where Hwi was. He was pressing a chaste kiss to his boyfriend’s bare shoulder, watching the way the muscle tensed, then relaxed, making his head turn so that their eyes met with simple gazes, abandoning the stove for a few long moments. Hyojong had hoped nothing would be too awkward or different between them, had hoped Hwi wouldn't give up on him, especially because of the tantrum he had pulled the night before. And he had definitely hoped their relationship wasn’t at stake once he saw the bruise circling his eye and meeting with the smallest of cuts along the bridge of his nose. Hyojong felt himself reaching out to them, brushing his fingertips over the noticeable injuries, and pulling back when Hwi flinched. He wanted to say sorry, to apologize for what he had done. But how do you say sorry for punching your boyfriend over drugs?

“Hey,” Hwi said softly, then turned back to the stove before him, twisting the switch so that it was off, and gathering two plates. “Hungry?”

Hyojong didn’t say anything at first, but when he saw Hwi’s eyes, pupils scanning over blank expressions and his own eyes placed over apologetic gazes, he nodded his head, only the slightest, then looked away. His stomach curled over. He wasn’t hungry at all, but he felt the need to force something down if it meant Hwi would feel just a bit better. 

They sat on the sofa in silence. Hyojong tried his best not to pick at his eggs and rather stuffed them in his mouth as if he wanted them that bad, pushing the plate further from himself, cringing a bit as it scratched terribly against the wooden coffee table, and leaned back against the cushion. He was feeling better this morning, but his mind raced at the thought of what it’d be like later, when his cravings kicked in harder. 

Hwi went to open his mouth, but Hyojong beat him to it, sitting up again, quickly this time, and wincing at the queasy feeling that came with it, and blinked a bit at Hwitaek’s surprised face when he blurted out a quick, “I’m sorry.” so breathless and needy, as if he had actually meant it.

Hwi didn’t say anything for a minute, just looked down at his wandering hands, pursing his lips as to what he was going to say next, as to what he _wanted_ to say next, then nodded. He looked at Hyojong, brows creased just the slightest and pressed his hands together in his lap. “I’m forgiving you right now for a reason. I trust you, Hyojong. I have no fucking clue why- but I do.”

Hyojong nodded a little and averted his eyes from the bruises, blinking away from the horrors it brought his mind to, before he was feeling Hwi’s hands against his own. Hyojong didn’t look up, rather intertwined his own fingers with his boyfriend’s and stared down at them. 

They were like that for a while, pressed against the vast silence, the wanted comfort that hadn’t come with it, at least for Hyojong, and the unwanted tenseness that rattled his ears into oblivion. He had finally gotten up when the clock struck noon and found his jacket over the chair next to Hwi’s TV, slipping it on and pushing his heels into his sneakers. 

“I’m gonna go back to my mom’s.” he said in between tying his laces, gazing up at Hwi as if he were a beggar. Hwi nodded slightly down at him. “I’m gonna get myself right.”

Those words had stuck with Hwi for the remainder of the time he had given Hyojong to do so. Letting his knee rock and his feet to subtly pound against his carpeted flooring with every bounce it had made. And his nails were bitten down to the nubs, nibbling at what was left of them as he nervously glanced at the clock, only to realize sixty seconds hadn’t even passed since the last time he checked it.

And Hyojong had gone to his mother’s house. It was, at first, solely for the purpose of getting better, to push himself from whatever habits Yuto had brought onto him, yet when he stopped at the door, shoes pressed against the bottom threshold, hands shaking in his pockets, not only from the cold, he found himself needing something more than Hwi’s pride for him. And he was knocking, then knocking again when there was no answer, announcing that, “It’s me! Hyojong, your son!”

And the door was opening, just enough to peak an eye through, chain lock attached, and his mother’s hair only seen spilling over her shoulder delicately. Hyojong was swallowing down the tension that had built up in his throat, swallowing down any bit of anxiety there was creeping through his veins. 

“Hi, mom.” he says quietly and he feels that proliferation in his stomach, the squeezing of his muscles, the cramps that would soon follow. He knew time was running out quickly before he would need his next fix, and he was running his tongue along his teeth. 

“Hi, mom.” he repeats and he looks down. “I-It’s been a while, yeah? It’s been a while.”

He sees her nod and something in her actions looked sad. He follows them and looks down once more. 

“I, uh, I need something from you- a favour. I need a favour.” she doesn’t say anything this time, doesn’t even move, her fingers still found against the doorknob, so he continues. “I just need a little cash- just a little- maybe five-no ten-” he stops and rubs his eyes, rubs his stomach from the pain that begins to come again. “I need, like, twenty bucks, mom. Just twenty bucks.”

Hyojong wants to bask in the silence that follows him, his mother’s lips clamped shut, brought into a straight line, teeth nipping at the skin there once they begin to quiver. And Hyojong pretends he can’t see the tears that well up in her eyes, so round and sorrowful, as if the son she once knew is gone, and she’s shaking her head, gripping the handle harder, pressing her body against the door in any case she would need to close it. “You know I can’t do that.” she says and he swallows around the sudden anger that comes.

It would be a lie if his mother said she wasn’t scared of him at this point, as if he would do something drastic or irrational and readied herself for something sudden. He straightens his back and stares through the sliver that she allows between them. “Mom, just twenty bucks, that’s all, mom. That’s all I want- all I need. Just twenty bucks. You can’t do that for your son?”

She shakes her head and forces the door closed when the tears finally fall, refuses to show weakness beyond the weak, and slides her back against the door when her son’s cries begin, loud bangs and heavy screams of her name from between his lips in wails, like a five year old’s outburst over not getting a toy at the store. He was on his knees, fists pressed to the door and banging mercilessly at the painted wood. 

He hadn’t given up for exactly ten minutes, crying out that she didn’t love him, that she’d pay for this, and only when the pains finally kicked in at full blast, he got up. And Hyojong wasn’t proud of a lot of things, but meeting a man in the bathroom of a shitty gas station and earning a good thirty five dollars afterwards was beyond the top of his list, wiping off his tainted lips with the back of his hands as he wobbled out and found the streets again. 

He had fallen asleep on the closest bench near his dealer just beyond the sun and he let it bake his skin, a prominent change against the cold air the he was surrounded in. His arms subconsciously wrapped themselves around his torso as he closed his eyes and let the familiar warmth slip through his system. 

-

He had awoken to the faint sound of yelling, as if he were in a tunnel and his mind was far from reality. He could hear his name beyond that tunnel, repeating over and over, tiny sparks of pain trenching his skin in quick flashes, causing his eyes to eventually open. The first thing he saw was the sun, piercing his pupils, then a figure hovering beyond it, over him. It took a moment to realize who the figure was, but not enough of a moment for him to stop the hand that was coming to his chest, pushing him further into the bench. 

“You said you were sorry.” it was Hwi, his voice a calm waver that had something terrible settling in Hyojong’s stomach. “I don’t date liars.”

Hyojong sits up and feels another hit to his chest, harsh fingers pressing into the hardness of his pecks, sending him back again. He could now make out Hwitaek’s grimace, a sort of disgust that settled on his face so horribly. 

“I’m not gonna deal with you, Hyojong. I love you, but I can’t deal with this.”

It began to become a blur at that point, hazy vision with tears, menacing with every word that left his boyfriend’s mouth like sickening venom piercing through his tired flesh in sudden heated moments. He gripped his stomach, feeling as though he was going to double over any moment and shook his head violently. 

“No.” he said in a hushed tone and Hwi’s face changed. Hyojong couldn’t tell to what it had changed to.

“What do you mean _’no’_ , Hyojong? You can’t just fucking decide whenever I’m okay with something. Do you realize how much it fucking hurt to find out what you’ve been doing? That you were doing it behind my back? And then proceeded to fucking lie to me after I helped you?” Hwi scoffed and sat down on the bench next to him, running his hands along his face, pressing the palms hard in hopes that it’ll wash away whatever mess he was in. He looks to the side, facing his boyfriend for a moment, before looking off again. “I went to your mom’s house just to make sure you had actually gone and was so relieved when she told me that you did show up. _Jesus Christ, Dawn_.” he was shaking his head by now, not even attempting to voice the last sentence he clearly wanted to voice, yet it was so obvious, _too_ obvious, to do so. So he stayed silent, waiting for some sort of response.

Hyojong pressed his fingers together, rubbing them against one another like bugs beneath the surface were causing him to, bringing him to high amounts of such discomfort. He couldn’t look Hwi in the eye, his lips unraveling cursed words that stung him in the heart- and it was all his stupid fault. He didn’t dare look up, but his nose began to burn and his voice wavered out a small, “What am I supposed to do?” eyes searching the pavement in a desperate need to occupy his mind, to occupy the stress that began to build up in his stomach. 

He felt Hwi’s eyes suddenly on him, angry and confused as they stared, and he could see Hwi shaking his head from his peripheral, and swallowed down the lump in his throat, praying he’d be okay, praying he hadn’t actually fucked something up. Surely Hwi wouldn’t break up with him, surely he cared enough to go searching for, _and finding_ , him. He still didn’t look up from the ground, awaiting Hwi’s response.

“You’re supposed to _stop_ , Dawn.” his voice was surprisingly calm, soft and gentle. Like the calm had decided to come after the storm this time. He still didn’t look up. “You need to fucking stop. To stop all of this. Completely.” 

Hyojong finally offered a glance, embarrassed and hazy, cheeks hot as their eyes met for only seconds, before he was looking down again, nodding at Hwitaek’s words, encouraging him to continue whatever it was that he had been feeling. Hyojong felt Hwi’s hand caress his own, thumb running along a bone on his wrist, pressing into the skin caringly. 

“You’re supposed to not lie. You’re supposed to be open with me, even when you do something stupid like this. You’re supposed to trust that I’m going to help you, rather than get angry at you.”

The gentle touches hadn’t ended and Hwi scooted close so that their thighs met and Hwi’s head found a resting place on Hyojong’s shoulder. He could hear Hwi softly inhale the musky scent he gave off, cigarettes mostly, against his dampened coat. Hyojong nodded again, although Hwi couldn’t see it, and muttered out an, “Okay.” so gently against the quiet wind, making Hwi nod his head as well, muttering out the same word.

It was fairly obvious in Hwi’s head that relapses would be a frequent guest in the journey Hyojong agreed to take, yet he was content with it. He was content with the fact that at least it was real, at least he had said “okay”, rather than leaving him alone to wither in self hatred like he had expected him to. He had some awful doubts in those last few minutes that they had spent on that bench, wondering if maybe trusting Hyojong was likely dumb, but seeing him hug his mother again, crying into her weak shoulder, had given Hwi a new hope that maybe the world wasn’t as full of shitty people as he believed it to be.

And they had spent an hour cleaning Hyojong’s room out and ridding of anything that would make minds become troubled, and they had spent those following hours staring at each other in his bed, lights dimmed low, and the crickets coming out to tell their secrets. Fingers caressed cheeks and pushed hair from eyes so that they could see the galaxies that lied within each other. And it had occurred to Hyojong on many occasions that being with Hwi had always made him feel something new, had always brought those gutty sensations in his stomach, had brought gentle smiles to his lips. He had always known that being with Hwi had given him a new high. But he had just only realized, gazing back at his boyfriend with dilated pupils and quickened breaths, that Hwi was the only high he’d ever need.


End file.
